


The Holiday Assignment

by ghostl0rd



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alphabet Soup Challenge, Alternate Canon, Alternate Reality, Bodyguard, F/M, Not Canon Compliant, lunyx
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-11 03:55:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7027483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostl0rd/pseuds/ghostl0rd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on holiday, Luna makes a new friend in Lestallum.  </p><p>LuNyx.  Written pre-release.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. From A to M

**Author's Note:**

> For Anon.
> 
> Spoken dialogue in italics in this fic is not English.  
> Bold text is messaging/texting/emailing

> All the voices that are spinnin' around me  
>  Trying to tell me what to say  
>  Can I fly right behind you  
>  And you can take me away  
>    
>  ~  _Nightingale_ , Norah Jones

 

* * *

**Agreement**

While Regis and Idola lean forward and snarl at each other over the table like hyenas over a dead carcass, the Crown Princess of Tenebrae stays still and silent: eyes forward, posture straight, chin raised; strong. She is here in her late father’s place, replaying their final conversation in her head. 

 _“Whatever Iedolas proposes you must agree to it.  For the good of Tenebrae,”_ _he rasped, the life in his eyes_ _steadily_ _dimming.  “You must. Promise me, Luna.”_

_Luna nodded through the tears, holding tightly to his hand, hoping the effort could anchor him to the living world for just a while longer.  “I promise.”_

_“I love you.  Remember that.”_

_“I love you. I will.”_

Luna has never given much thought to the future—as first in line to the Tenebrae kingdom there is not much room for surprise.  Nevertheless she’s prepared for it. From the age of fourteen she’s shadowed her father in meetings, at social gatherings.  She learns politics—eventually _knows_ it like she does the back of her hand; like she knows chess. First her move, then the opponent’s: observe, learn, anticipate, _conquer_. 

Iedolas stands.  Silence descends quickly to accommodate him. Luna knows it isn’t out of respect that the other men clamp their mouths shut; it is _fear_.  “Niflheim is willing to compromise, if Lucis is.”

Seated at the other head of the table the King of Lucis observes him, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Your terms?”

 _Do not say anything, only_ agree _._  

One of the emperor’s aides scurries forward, clutching an electronic tablet.  After quickly tapping onto it a holographic map of Lucis, glowing blue, hovers over the conference table.  The tablet changes hands.  As Iedolas speaks, he lightly taps against the tablet, and certain sections of hologram Lucis glow red in response. “We agree to remove our control over territories we have taken here, here, and _here_.  As goodwill we will also give you”—the map switches to Tenebrae and again he taps a few areas here and there—“control of these territories.”

 _Promise me, Luna._ Luna’s hands curl into fists under the table.   

Regis’ eyes flicker over to her and then back to Iedolas. “Absolutely not.  Your ‘compromise’ is insulting to Lucis’ relationship with the Tenebrae people.  Especially with the Crown Princess present.” The Lucii behind Regis exchange nervous glances.  “We will not take our lands back from the enemy if it means stealing from our friends.  I apologize, your highness,” he tells Luna.  “Clearly Niflheim hospitality is of a different standard to the rest of the world.”

Luna nods woodenly in acknowledgement. Iedolas is unperturbed.

“And if that compromise was sealed with a union between Lucis and Tenebrae?” he challenges.

Regis eyes him shrewdly. “Union?”

Iedolas smiles. Gestures vaguely at Luna, who finds herself sitting very, very still, and very, very straight. She can hear her heart pounding in her head.  A union? 

“Surely not—”

“A _wedding_ , Regis,” Iedolas says, “you get your lands back, and your reputation in your people’s eyes and that of the Tenebrae people will go unblemished. The lands that belong to Tenebrae will remain that of Tenebrae’s—under the princess’ control, if the princess so wishes.”

Luna hates how he says ‘princess’, as if she isn’t worthy of being addressed by name. As if she doesn’t deserve the honour of being treated as an _equal_.  As if she shouldn’t be sitting at the table.  As far as Iedolas is concerned, this meeting is between he and Regis alone. Luna’s presence here at most is just a formality. 

“And if we refuse?” Regis’ tone is tightly controlled.

Idola waves a hand dismissively. “ _Obviously_ we will back to being brutes and murdering each other on the battlefield; it’s your choice.  Either way I look forward to it.”

 _‘Your choice’,_ Luna repeats in her head.  _What a farce._

_‘For the good of Tenebrae.’_

_Observe._ Say nothing _._

 _Learn._ She never had a say in the first place.

 _Anticipate.  This_ was what her father meant.

“Your highness?” Regis asks Luna, gently.

Taking a deep breath Luna stands, for the first time, not in her father’s shadow, but in the light.  And the light is blinding.  Her eyes water, a knot forms in her throat.  She keeps her chin strong, her voice neutral and lets anger boil hot in her veins.

“I will need time to think about this.”

 Regis falters at her words.  Out of respect nods his assent and glowers over the table at Iedolas. 

The emperor smiles, in the way that reminds her of a viper coiling to strike.  “Take as much time as you need, princess.”

 _Conquer_.  It’s not a compromise; it’s an ultimatum _._

* * *

**Bereavement**

 

Luna throws all her energy into prayer.  When that isn’t enough to temper her frustrations she buries herself in paperwork in the week that follows.  She hides her rage behind a smile, a veneer of politeness and calm even when her ministers nervously poke and prod her at her father’s _funeral_ , urging her to take the deal. 

_“We would lose nothing from this union.”_

Gentiana gently but firmly ushers them away.  

Her father’s coffin reaches the bottom of the pit at last, and Luna steps forward with the bouquet of red poppies; lets it fall from her fingers.

_Sleep, father._

_Sleep and take my dreams with you._

 

She calls a meeting afterward and tells the Counsel she will go through with the union, as per her father’s last request.  They leave her alone after that.

 

A week later Luna disappears.

 

* * *

**Consult**

 

The Counsel interrogates Gentiana, to the point of threatening her with imprisonment when she refuses to divulge the missing princess’ whereabouts.  In answer, Gentiana reaches into her pocket and hands over the sealed envelope Luna instructed her to give if they ever resorted to such. The contents of the letter leave them stuttering and trembling.

“A-abdication?”

“She wouldn’t!”

". . . would she?"

Gentiana says nothing, simply gestures to the door. 

~

Because Luna is sure Noctis has no idea of the arrangement between her, Regis and Iedolas, and because she knows he’ll worry once news of her disappearance reaches him, she makes sure to text him before she leaves.  (She isn’t taking her cell phone, just a burner one that Gentiana's advised to only use in case of emergency.)

 

 

 

> **_Going on holiday! See you when I get back :)_ **

 

Half of it’s a lie. Luna’s not sure which half. 

****

~

When news of Luna’s disappearance reaches Regis the latter buries his face into his hand, shaking his head.  And then he begins to laugh.  It starts off as a quiet chuckle, but eventually his shoulders are heaving and his head is thrown back into a guffaw that sounds half-hysterical and half-outraged.  Cor, who brought him the news in the first place, is certain he's witnessing the descent of his oldest friend into madness.  He waits, expression blank so as not to encourage anymore laughter and after a minute or so, Regis finally catches his breath:

“I just. . . you know _I_ always thought she’d be _happy_ to marry Noct—they’re so close.” He wheezes out another laugh, holding his stomach.  “Goddess, this is _not_ going to be good for Noct’s self-esteem.”

“ _You’re_ not good for your son’s self-esteem,” Cor mutters. 

Regis waves it off and continues to laugh well into the night.

~

Iedolas is at the shooting range, one eye squeezed shut as he empties a whole clip in the centre of the target when Izunia saunters in with the news. 

“Do you want me to take care of it?” Izunia asks.  Iedolas lowers the rifle, processing this new development.  He turns the weapon over in his hands, testing its weight before he passes it over.  Izunia mimics him and then tilts his head. The barrel is still smoking, the smell of gunpowder lingering in the air between them.

“Too heavy?” Izunia asks, nose wrinkling.

“Too _conspicuous_.  I need something smaller.  Something that can fit inside my sleeve.”

“Redesigning it will take time,” Izunia says, tone reproachful.  The rifle in his hands was meant to be the final prototype.  “And the princess, sir?”

“Leave her.  Fix this first.”

“Yes sir.”

 

* * *

**Distraction**

 

Lestallum is a breath of fresh air for Luna; is a thousand faces passing through every day, and so quickly that no one has time to give her a second glance when she goes shopping in the flea market.  In this sea of people she is a complete unknown, just another personality with a purse, ready to be accommodated, and easily forgotten when the transaction ends. Having people push past her, yell over her, or shove her out of the way on the footpaths takes some getting used to.  It’s a new kind of ‘normal’ but one she relishes in. 

At least, it's better than the one waiting for her at home.

Her routine for the first two weeks follows the same touristic formula: she tries the food, the cafes that Gentiana’s researched and circled on a map.  She visits the night markets (switchblade knife and pepper spray in her pockets courtesy of Gentiana), goes hiking, goes chocobo riding.  She takes pictures to show Gentiana upon her return, and poses with one arm around the space where her best friend and confidant could have been standing. 

 _“This journey is for_ you _.  I would only serve as a reminder of your duty.”_

Gentiana is right, but also wrong.  Time to herself has helped her clear her head, helped her replay the meeting’s sequence of events logically without emotion, but the weight in her chest does not quite leave, always returning the moment the distraction of Lestallum’s hustle and bustle becomes swallowed up by the sleepful silence of the night.

Worst vacation ever.

 

* * *

**Entertainment**

 

One morning, groggy from a torturous night’s sleep, Luna is in her favorite café—the Dancing Bean—nursing a hot black coffee to bring herself above subhuman, when she hears a commotion at the cash register. At the epicenter is a man in the most horrendously orange floral shirt she has ever seen, nervously trying and failing to make the girl behind the counter understand that he’s lactose intolerant.  His command of the local language is clumsy and boorish at best, and Luna blesses the girl and her co-workers behind the counter for keeping a straight face: he’s just asked her to sacrifice a small goat and shave his backside.

Ever the diplomat, Luna pushes out of her seat and goes over.  She knows for a fact that the café’s employees do understand him; but every once in a while they like to indulge in this game of miscommunication, if only to make their day go faster.   

 _“_ Excuse me _,”_ Luna cuts in, moving to stand beside the stranger.  She relays the man’s order back to the girl who pouts a little, but then smiles back and nods. 

 _“We were only having him on,”_ the girl says with a laugh, holding her hand out for the cash.

 _“I can tell,_ ” Luna smiles.  The eyes of her rescuee flit nervously back and forth as the exchange is made.  She only intends to nod politely at him, and return to her seat, but the moment she sees his face her stomach does front flips. Beneath the hideous shirt and floppy hat her fellow tourist is actually quite striking: chiseled jawline, unassuming grey eyes, and muscular—if his forearms are anything to go by.  He’s too relieved to notice her staring, but the cashier does, winking surreptitiously at Luna over the counter while she works the rig.

“Thanks,” he says.  “I was afraid I’d have to resort to dancing around like a monkey.”

“Why, is that a talent of yours?” Luna teases, smiling.

“Not _particularly_ ,” he admits with a laugh.  “I’ve been here for two weeks but I’m not too good at this uh vacation thing.”

 _Join the club_ _._   “I’ll let you get back to your ‘ _soy latte with two sugars_ ’.” She turns to go.

“Wait,” he says, and a gloved hand sticks out toward her.  “I’m,” there’s a pause as if he’s trying to decide—a pause that lasts only a second, but Luna in all her dealings with people who have proven themselves to be unscrupulous time and time again, does not miss it, “Nyx.”  

Luna studies him, sizes him up. There hadn’t been a hint of pretence in his  eyes —she’s met enough liars to know he’s telling the truth—but her thoughts still linger on his earlier hesitation.

“Nice to meet you Nyx,” Luna answers, the earlier warmth in her tone cooling.  She can feel the walls coming up, cordoning her off.  “I’m Stella,” she says, remembering the fake name her hotel room is booked under.

When his eyebrows rise a little in surprise at her name Luna has the strangest feeling she’s seen him somewhere, but his shirt and the friendly smile on his face are altogether too distracting for her to be able to sift through the memories to place him.  

When he asks if he can join her Luna finds herself saying ‘yes’.

* * *

**Funny**

 

She catches a glimpse of that same horrible floral shirt a few nights later (different color scheme—white with purple hibiscus flowers) while haggling with a street vendor for a pair of earrings. Nyx doesn’t say anything, just stands back and watches, softly applauding when the vendor caves and finally takes her money.

“Impressive,” he remarks, following. 

“Thanks,” Luna says over her shoulder.   A few metres later she stops at a food stall, inhaling the smell of deep fried—she can’t tell what kind of meat it is, only that it _is_ meat, mixed in with fried noodles and vegetables and that it smells _heavenly_.  Her stomach grumbles in anticipation as the vendor spots the two of them and hurries over.

“How about I buy this round?” Nyx offers.

Luna raises an eyebrow at him, one side of her mouth quirking.  “Sure.  Assuming you _don’t_ have any other dietary requirements that need catering to.” Nyx gives an embarrassed laugh.

“I. . . _guess_ I could give you money and let _you_ do the talking.”

“Mm yeah, that would be safer for you.” Luna turns to the vendor and smiles.  In the reflection of a jar of pickles she catches him rolling his eyes at her while digging through his pockets for his wallet.  Unexpectedly the scowl on his face fades, eyes widening when he realizes he showed up empty-handed.  Luna holds in a laugh.

“Don’t worry, just find us a table where we can sit," she says.

“Yes ma’am.”

He isn’t much of a talker while they eat—at least, in regards to talking about _himself_. (Luna’s relieved, frankly: it just means she won’t have to talk about _herself_ to give the conversation some reciprocity.)  He’s more absorbed with the people around them, making up stories about their personal lives. “Those two are having an affair,” he says, of a couple participating in a very embarrassing display of affection in front of them.  “She’s planning on leaving her wife for her.  And that old timer over there is the leader of an underground crime syndicate. He’s teaching that kid how to pick pockets.  It’s all in the hands, see.  Okay, now you try.”

~

“You don’t have a lot of optimism towards people, do you?” Luna concludes, when the walk back to her hotel ends later that night.  His backstories had gotten more and more bleak the longer they played.

“Ahh, well.” Nyx scratches the stubble on his jaw. “There’s just not a lot to be optimistic about in this world, you know?”

Luna _does_ , and she wishes she didn’t.  She turns and starts up the steps toward the doorman, the ache in her chest returning.  “Good-night, Nyx.”

“Good-night.”

 

* * *

**Grab**

 

Nyx is hovering around the entrance of the Dancing Bean when she goes for her ritualistic coffee a few mornings later.  She sees the floral shirt—red with yellow red ginger flowers—before she sees him and out of curiosity, while they wait for their coffees (her shout, as he hasn’t had any luck in finding his wallet) she asks him just how many shirts he has. 

Grey eyes twinkle under the floppy brim of his hat. “Five,” he answers, as-a-matter-of-factly. 

“One for every day of the working week,” Luna teases.  She blames the hat for not being able to take him seriously.  Nyx grimaces.

“Told you I was bad at vacationing.”

“How about on Saturdays and Sundays?”

“Those are my laundry days, so. . . completely naked.”

Luna shakes her head, smiling into her coffee mug.  Laughter from a table erupts suddenly, catching their attention.  She turns back after glancing around the entire café, outrageous backstories on the tip of her tongue and sees he’s been quietly watching _her_.  His eyes are intense, brows slightly furrowed, as if coming to a conclusion about her. He has to know who she is; he _has_ to.

Luna stares back, coffee mug paused halfway to her lips, waiting.  She has his wallet in her bag—she’d lifted it last night (she hadn’t been able to shake off her suspicion of him)—and the first thing that stuck out about his driver’s license is that it was issued _right here in Lestallum five years ago_. Two weeks her _foot_.  Is he a con artist? Is she his mark?  What exactly is his angle?  He’s never hit on her, but that could be part of the long game.  That last part should not be anything to be giddy about, but it is, and Luna takes a long sip to drown the feeling.

“There’s a carnival happening in the next town two weeks from now,” he says. “Roller-coasters, cotton candy—reckon you’d be into that sort of thing?  I know a guy who could give us a ride—if you’re up for it, that is.”

Luna opens her mouth to tell him to get lost. What comes out instead is:

“That sounds like fun, I’d love to.”

* * *

**Honesty**

 

In the days leading up to the carnival Nyx gradually becomes a new addition to Luna’s schedule, always meeting her in the mornings before she goes sightseeing and shopping.  One afternoon presents an opportunity for confrontation when she decides to visit the botanical gardens.  He’s lounging on a bench, conversing in rapid-fire Lestali, lazily tossing bread crumbs into the duck pond in front of him.  Luna waits till he hangs up before clearing her throat.  Nyx’s head whips around, and his wallet lands smack in the middle of his face. 

 _“So I’ve got two backstories for you.”_ Luna takes a seat on the bench beside him. She’s not angry because they’ve been deceiving each other from the start; actually relieved to get these contrivances out in the open.  _“One you’re a con artist, trying to swindle a tourist out of her money.”_

_“Two?”_

_“You’re a_ terrible _con-artist trying to swindle a tourist out of her money.”_   The corner of Nyx’s mouth tugs. 

“Why do you say terrible?” He breaks off a piece of bread and passes it to her.

“You didn’t notice when I took your wallet.”

He laughs a little. “Guess I got distracted,” he says, and something shifts in way he looks at her then—his eyes soften, go into an almost dream-like state— but only for a moment.  As soon as Luna calls his name, worried, he snaps out of it and his gaze is intense and focused on the pond in front of him, jaw set.  Luna wonders, but decides not to pursue it.

“Not a very smart move, for a con artist,” she says.  It’s a lame attempt at distraction, but it works. He smiles wryly at her.

“Good thing I’m not a con artist.”

“What are you then?”

“Just someone who’s got your back. . . and knows his way around a fight.”

Luna idly rolls a piece of bread in-between her thumb and forefinger.  “So you’re a friend.”

His mouth twists. “Maybe. Do friends lie to each other?”

Luna wants to say ‘no’. ‘No friends _shouldn’t’_ , but it’s unrealistic and naïve, and would make her a hypocrite. “Sometimes if there’s a good reason, it’s unavoidable,” she answers, thinking of Noctis.  From friend to. . . husband?  She can’t imagine how he’s going to react when his father breaks the news to him.  _If he reacts at all._ There’s always been this inexplicable bond between them since they were children, but Noctis like her has always been one to play things close to the chest, schooling his emotions behind a cool façade the way she hides her rage behind a smile.  For all she knows he could be horrified at the notion.  “Nyx,” she says quietly.

“Hmm?”

“I would like to start over.”

“Start over?” 

Luna offers her hand as explanation.  The handshake she receives in response is strong and brisk.  And callused.  It’s difficult not imagining him on the battlefield, now that she has an idea of his profession.  “I am Lunafreya Nox Fleuret of Tenebrae.  Luna, for short.”

“Nyx Ulric. Lucii Military: Kingsglaive division,” Nyx says. The moment Luna hears ‘Kingsglaive’ is the moment she finally places him.  They’ve passed each other in the corridors multiple times during her visits to Lucis but the sight of weapons on his person has always invoked such unease within her that nine times out of ten she quickly averts her gaze to the ceiling or out a nearby window. 

“You’re hard to recognize when you're not in uniform,” Luna says, flushing slightly.

“So they tell me,” Nyx winks.  He stretches his arms over his head and yawns. “You know, ‘Stella’ doesn’t really suit you.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

“I’m just saying: you’re going from ‘moon’ to ‘star’.  It’s a step down.”

“Is it really a step down?”

“Of course it is.”

“But stars produce their own light.  The moon doesn’t.”

“Stars are also full of sh—uh _gas_ ,” Nyx points out.  “No one stares at the stars— at least not while the moon’s out.” 

“I can’t tell if you’re complimenting or making fun of me.”

Nyx answers with a shrug, and a loaf of bread hits him square in the face.

* * *

**Ice-Cream**

 

One afternoon, while eating ice cream on the pier and watching a luxury cruise liner roll smoothly into port, Nyx trails off into silence in the middle of a particularly entertaining backstory about the ice cream vendor.  The smile on his face dims as he stares wistfully at the passengers disembarking.

“That could have been me, you know,” he says. Luna glances from the crowd back to him, curious. “I actually _was_ on vacation till you arrived but then I made the mistake of reporting back that I’d spotted you _here_ , out and about with no security detail.  After that you became the ‘holiday assignment’.” 

“Does it make your job harder, knowing that I know?”

“Course not. It actually makes it easier, less unpredictable.  Now that _you_ know, I figure we can work out a system to keep in touch—something that doesn’t involve me needing to stalk you from the rooftops.  But I also don’t want to intrude more than I have to.”

He’s not intruding, not at all. She looks forward to their meetups for coffee: they always end with her having to hold her sides to keep herself from splitting apart.  Thing is, he doesn’t even _mean_ to be funny—his outlook on life is just _that_ jaded.  Brutally honest. It’s endearing, in a way.  “If we’d never met, you could have continued to stalk me without me ever knowing.”

“I _could have_ ,” Nyx agrees, and then he goes quiet, watching, _waiting_ for her to catch up.  A slow smile spreads across his face when the light bulb switches on in Luna’s head.

“So that first meeting _was_ deliberate.”

He shovels a big spoonful of cookies n’ cream into his mouth, swallows, and then winks.  Luna wonders if he’s immune to getting brain-freeze.

“Why?”

“One, I was against keeping you in the dark, but the king specifically said under no circumstances was I to approach you. So, I needed to figure out a way to get _you_ to meet _me_ so that _technically_ I wouldn’t be breaking protocol.  Once that happened I could figure out a way to tell you.”

“Two?”

“Two, because I saw you taking photographs with your 'invisible friends' and that was an entertaining development.  That had to be the saddest thing I’ve ever seen—don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard in my entire life.”

Luna’s face reddens.  “So you saw.”

“Oh yeah,” Nyx confirms, grinning. He dodges the tiny red plastic spoon that sails in the air toward his head.

* * *

**Jealous**

 

Jealousy is an emotion Luna is not particularly familiar with.  She doesn’t immediately put a label to it, but it starts as a subtle sinking feeling in her stomach while she’s waiting for him to finish his order in perfect Lestali (the look on the Dancing Bean cashier’s face is _priceless_ ) when another customer comes up beside him and strikes up a conversation. . . that stretches for longer than is necessary.  

Luna knows flirty banter when she sees it: the constant eye-contact, laughing on cue. . . the blushing on Nyx’s part when the other man takes out a business card and tucks it in Nyx’s shirt pocket.  It has her body tensing, fingers curling into fists beneath the table. It’s just occurred to her that Nyx has a life outside of playing baby-sitter; that he probably resents her for cutting in on his vacation time, that he’s only being polite and friendly because it’s his _job._

“I hope you didn’t say no on my account,” Luna says after he finally makes his way back.  “I may not look it, but I happen to know my way around a fight too.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. But I would have had to turn him down either way.”  He pulls out the business card and passes it to her, by way of explanation.  Luna takes one look at it and giggles (later she’ll feel terrible for even _feeling_ jealous in the first place.)

 **NEOR MODELS**  
M. Oirai

“I mean, you _could_ always have it as a fall back,” she says passing the card back. 

“Really.” Nyx is unconvinced.

“Of course.  You’re good-looking,” when Nyx raises an eyebrow, Luna quickly adds (simultaneously managing to hide her mortification), “but you also have discipline. Commitment.” 

“Right.”

Luna is _sure_ from the cheeky glint in his eye that he totally, _completely_ did _not_ miss her slip up.

* * *

**Knock-Out**

 

The evening of the carnival Luna is in the middle of tying her sneakers when there’s a knock at the door.  Her eyes widen, breath catching in her throat.  It's Nyx—for once not in his usual ‘touristic’ attire, but in jeans and a grey threadbare tee that pulls taut across a toned chest and biceps.  _You’re staring. Stop staring._ The other sneaker in her hand lands on the carpet with a _thud_ that quickly brings her back to centre. She snatches it up before he can. 

“Luna?”

As much as she tries to shake it off, Luna’s voice still comes out as an uncharacteristically high-pitched stutter. “I-I’m sorry h-how did—”

“How did I get past security?”

She nods, not trusting her voice. 

“Not without difficulty,” Nyx replies.  “Don’t worry, you’re in good hands.”

 _It’s not a date.  We’re just two people going to see a carnival together,_ Luna repeats in her head, following Nyx into a bus outside the hotel and watching him pay the driver.  She takes the window seat so she at least has the excuse of not looking at him while they talk.  _It’s not a date._

(It. . .kind of feels like one, though.)

 

* * *

**Learning**

 

A booth where carnival-goers are shooting tiny pellets at targets to win a chocobo plushie catches Luna’s eye and Nyx has to jog to catch up to her.  The booth attendant’s voice booms through the fairground with the help of a megaphone.

_“Step right up, ladies and gents!  Get ten in a row and the prize is yours!”_

Luna is handed a rifle and only manages to hit three.  Nyx coughs to hide a laugh.  The attendant tells her she’s got one more attempt left while he works at resetting the targets.  Luna’s contemplating cheating (i.e. using her Sight) when Nyx speaks up.

“I could give you some pointers, if you want.”

Luna internally laughs at the irony: a man hailing from a country where firearms have been outlawed for over a century is offering her shooting tips.  “Really.”

“If you want.”

“The floor’s yours.”

“Point your weapon at the target,” Nyx says, and Luna, inwardly rolling her eyes, humors him.

“Alright, now wha—” Luna freezes as he comes up behind her, chest bumping against her back, arms and hands covering her own— “Nyx—”

“Bend your knees a little bit, like you’re grounding yourself—perfect,” he instructs.  Somehow with all of Luna’s thoughts flying out the window her body follows his instructions just fine. “Now, move this front elbow a little bit, under the stock—yeah, like that.  You have really good posture by the way.  Now, deep breaths, and—”

Bull’s-eye, then another bull’s-eye.  Another bull’s-eye after that. 

“You’re a natural,” Nyx whispers, a mixture of awe and pride in his voice. Luna beams, encouraged.  She’s about to go for a fourth when an air horn goes off, shocking her back into reality. 

 _“I’ll let those first three slide,”_ the attendant says, _“but only one of you is allowed to shoot.  Rules are rules guys.”_

Luna turns.  “You can have— _oh_. . .” she trails off, seeing how close they are.  She has no words to explain why her heart skips a beat, just that it does, and the look on Nyx’s face has to be a perfect mirror of hers, emulating everything she feels in that moment: nervousness, fear. . .desire. 

 _“Come on, guys, you’re holding up the line,”_ someone calls.  Nyx scowls in the direction of whoever said that, before turning back to her. 

 “May I?” he asks, one hand on the rifle barrel, tugging it toward him. Luna lets go and gracefully steps aside.  She ‘ _could_ ’ use her powers and cheat, but she’s very to intrigued to see if Nyx is blowing on hot air.  She’s used to getting that from Noctis and. .

. . .and she has no idea why she’s comparing the two now, but in the interests of _not_ over-thinking things, she takes a deep breath and exhales.  Pushes it right out of her mind.   _Don't go there. Don't even go there. You can't compare someone you've just met to someone you've known your whole life._

He takes aim and fires in rapid succession, hitting the rest of the targets effortlessly.  The crowd is silent as he hands the weapon back.

The attendant hands over their prize, speechless. 

 _“Well shit,”_ someone crows, earning laughter and scattered applause from a handful of people.

 As they walk toward the rides Nyx struggles to find a way to hold the adult-sized chocobo and talk to Luna until she steps in.  It’s starting to feel like a recurring theme: her playing the hero.

“Here, I’ll hold half.”

* * *

**Memory**

 

It occurs to Luna, when the gondola they hop into days later begins its ascent and the people taking pictures with their loved ones become moving dots on the ground, that she hasn’t had a single brush with the media.  She’s taken holidays with Gentiana in the most remote parts of the globe—an oasis in the middle of the desert, a rainforest, a mountain—and journalists and reporters have been known to show up just two or three days into their vacation.  Lestallum is a famous and popular tourist destination; very easily accessible.  She can’t shake the feeling that she’s been able to blend in perhaps a little _too_ easily.

“What’s on your mind?” Nyx asks.

“I was just thinking. . .this has to be the most peaceful vacation I’ve ever had.”

“Peaceful how?”

“No invasive cameras, no nosy reporters, no crowds trying to catch a glimpse of me. . .what?” She slaps Nyx lightly on the arm. Why is he smirking? “What’s so funny?  Don’t tell me _you_ had something to do with this.”

“Alright I won’t.” Luna hits him again.  “You _just said_ not to tell you—”

“Tell me how you did it.”

“Sorry, that’s classified—”

“ _Tell me._ ”

“You’re going to get me fired, you know that, right?”

“There’s always modeling.  I can put in a good word for you.”

“Oh ha- _ha_.”

“Come on, who would I tell anyway?” Luna adds, before laughing quietly.  Gentiana.  _Definitely Gentiana._

Nyx mutters something along the lines of ‘gonna cop so much shit for this’ and digs into his jean pocket, pulling out a fountain pen.  Luna looks from it to him, cynical. 

“You make them sign non-disclosure agreements?” 

Nyx holds up a finger for her to be silent and begins carefully dismantling it, handing her different components—the pen cap, and barrel for instance—that he doesn’t need.  Eventually he holds up a syringe, (pen nib as the needle) filled with a glowing green liquid in between his thumb and forefinger.

“This is _Lethe_."

"Lethe?"

"My sister was trying to figure out how to bottle the Esuna spell—a lot of us get poisoned on a daily basis and there was no way in hell she was going to be relegated to ‘medic’.  Each of us having a supply on hand is efficient. We don’t have to keep relying on her, plus it also saves her energy in battle.”

“So this potion. . .”

“Is the undiluted form of what she was _actually_ trying to create. Introduce this into the human body and it becomes a powerful memory wiping agent.”

“So there _have_ been reporters,” Luna muses.  _I knew it was too good to be true._

“Not just reporters, civilians too.  When they spot you, it’s only by accident.  I get to them before they can get the word out and ‘ _poof_ ’ you were never here. Sometimes I even ‘let slip’ that you’ve been spotted in another town and they’re gone the next day chasing up this ‘lead’.”

“So _that’s_ where you disappear to during the day.” She'd always wondered.

“I could you know, _stop_ , if you wanted—“

“No, no, I appreciate it. Thank you, Nyx.  I don’t think I would’ve been able to enjoy my time here properly if people did know.”

“Yeah I figured. And you're welcome.  And now, there’s only one thing left to do,” Nyx says solemnly. He takes hold of Luna’s wrist, syringe hovering a few inches above her skin.  Luna goes still, face paling.

“Nyx?”

Nyx snorts and then bursts into laughter, releasing her. Luna hits him.

“That wasn’t funny!”

“Yes it was. Oh man your _face_ —ow! Hey, careful!” Luna continues to swat at him, blushing furiously while he reassembles the fountain pen. 

“Someday, Nyx Ulric you’re going to wake up—” their pod comes to a sudden violent halt, knocking Luna into Nyx’s lap.  Wonderful.

As if today couldn't get any more embarrassing.

“Sorry I don’t know what. . .” She slips into silence, all coherent thought taking flight moment she raises her gaze to meet his. The tension she felt from the carnival returns, only this time there is no obnoxious attendant to pour cold water on the moment. This is supposed to be a platonic day of sight-seeing. _This. . .is. . . platonic?_ He needs to stop looking at her—no, the correct term would be ‘ _gazing_ ’— like that. And _she_ has to refrain from looking at his lips. _I have to, or else. . ._

. . . _crap_.

Nyx notices—of _course_ he does—and he’s no help at all: grey gaze tracing over her mouth, darkening to black when he meets her eyes again. Luna clears her throat, tries to scrape up whatever bravado she has left.

“Nyx—”

“Dinner.” He says, voice slightly rough around the edges.  His eyes turn hopeful.  "Tonight?"

“l. . .yes.” Luna nods, cursing her inarticulateness.  “I’d like that. I’d love to.”

Relief washes over Nyx’s face, but on its heels follows a smile that has Luna forgetting how to breathe.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lethe is from greek mythology and yes, that _was_ a Roen reference


	2. From N to Z

**Night**

 

 

Nyx shows up to her hotel room earlier than expected: clean-shaven in a dress shirt and slacks (and polished oxfords) which he’s in the middle of claiming _he_ definitely doesn’t remember packing when he suddenly drops into silence and goes uncharacteristically wide-eyed and staring, like a deer frozen in the headlights of an oncoming car.  Luna just smiles, pleased that the thirty minutes she spent haggling for this dress was well worth the effort, and leaves the door open for him while she goes to grab her purse.  (Gentiana would proudly tell her that she’s broken him.)

“Nyx, _please_ , you’ve seen me in _plenty_ of dresses.”  Both in and outside of Tenebrae (or Lestallum).  It’s rarer for people to see Luna in shorts and trousers—the two pieces of clothing don’t exactly convey the exact level of ‘serenity’ and ‘ethereality’ befitting of a speaker of the Gods (according to the masses). 

“I _have_ seen you in plenty of dresses,” Nyx agrees, winded but more or less recovered when she returns to the threshold. “I just _haven’t_ seen you in _that_ kind of dress. Showing _that_ amount of—” he clears his throat while Luna twirls, navy blue chiffon floating and fluttering briefly in the air above her knees, revealing a generous amount of leg that would have the older and more conservative members of the Tenebrae population shaking their heads.

“Well.” Luna shrugs. “I thought perhaps a change from white would be nice for the occasion.” 

“In that case,” Nyx wags his eyebrows up and down—more for comic effect than seduction. “Consider me totally, _definitely_ on board.  Milady,” he adds cheekily.

Luna tilts her head at him, mouth curling at one corner.  “Nyx Ulric, just because I _let_ you buy me dinner, does not mean I’m going to sleep with you.”

Nyx makes a show of planting his chin in his palm, appearing thoughtful.  “So, hypothetically speaking: if I were to buy you _two_ dinners—” he busts out laughing when Luna swats him with her clutch.

“Cad!”

“ _Hypothetically_ ,” he points out, grinning roguishly.  He offers his arm and Luna interlocks their elbows, deciding to let him have this round. 

* * *

**Oak**

 

 

With the exception of Nyx’s cell phone going off at inopportune intervals— ‘sorry, routine check-in’ he explains, grimacing—the dancing that follows dinner is a delight. She’s sure they’ve exhausted every possible topic over coffee—that involves avoiding talking about themselves—that when the live band starts and people start shuffling toward the dancefloor they glance at each other at the exact same moment and blurt in unison:

“Would you like to—”

“Hey do you wanna—” and then Nyx smiles, grey eyes warm, cheeks slightly pink as he stands, extending a hand. 

Nyx is not a good dancer (not even a great one) by any stretch of the imagination, but he _is_ determined, is content with her leading—not the least bit insecure about the other couples snickering at them.  They get through few the first few songs pointing out things of interest regarding this outdoor restaurant’s decor: how the fairy lights draped overhead remind Luna of stars, how the flaming torches lining the perimeter remind Nyx of an old camping trip, the motives of the owner behind no two chairs being the same—until the tempo of the music begins to slow and the lights get a little bit dimmer and they’re essentially just quietly swaying from side to side. 

Drawing closer and closer together.

“For what it’s worth: I’ve got your back,” Nyx says.  Luna tilts her head up at him, but his eyes are on the people dancing around them.  “Whatever it is you’re going through Luna—the reasons behind you coming to Lestallum to escape—it’s none of my business, I get that.  But whatever they are . . .just know that I’m here for you. I know we’ve only known each other for a month but count on _that_ if nothing else.”  He clears his throat awkwardly, blushing. “Sorry, was that cheesy?”

 _Beyond cheesy._   “A little bit,” Luna teases. “But it was much appreciated.  Thank you, Nyx.  Truly.”

“Heh. Anytime.”

 

* * *

**Plunge**

 

 

The ride home ends so quickly it’s almost unfair.  The doorman is yawning and waiting with one hand on the door while Nyx helps her out of the car.    

“If you don’t see me tomorrow at coffee, assume _this guy_ ,” Nyx indicates over his shoulder to the cabbie staring stony-faced at the meter, “had it in for me.”  Behind him the cabbie rolls his eyes.

Luna smiles.  “I’m sure you’ll be fine, Nyx.”

“I’m just saying man: you never know. He could be a super spy or a—” he breaks off when she kisses him.

He stands in shock for a few, terrifying seconds, but then he kisses back: one hand cupping her face, the other traveling to the small of her back to pull her closer—

—until both the doorman and the cabbie clear their throats pointedly.   They both break off, Nyx laughing breathlessly.  He takes a step back, one hand on the cab door.

“Uh _so_ ,” Nyx says.

“ _So_.” Luna mimics, smiling.  He’s shy under her gaze, cheeks flushed a dark red, like someone who’s had too much to drink.  He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, one hand coming up to run through his hair. Clears his throat.

“I guess I should uh—”

“Would you like to come up?”

“—actually get back in the car before the cabbie—wait, _what_?” 

“Come on man I got kids to feed,” the cabbie grumbles behind him. 

“Or—” Luna starts, but Nyx quickly interrupts, banishing that second thought away by waving his hands frantically in front of him. 

“N-no no no, I’d love to." Grey eyes are filled with concern.  "It’s just—are you _sure_?”

“Is this a ‘royal’ thing?” Luna can’t help but ask, crossing her arms. Goddess, if he tells her he _can’t_ out of some outdated courtesy to preserve her ‘honor’ she’s going to grow a complex right then and there.

“It’s more of a consent thing,” Nyx replies. “‘Royal’ hadn’t’’ actually crossed my mind, but now that you mentioned it—” Luna kisses him again, this time more firmly to shut off that working brain of his.  It works—a little too well though: he stumbles backward, back hitting against the side of the car, staring at her in a daze for a short while before shaking it off. 

"Upstairs. Roger that."

“Alright: who do _I_ have to kiss to pay me?” The cabbie says sarcastically.  

* * *

**Quiet**

 

 

The morning after is a revelation and a lesson in communication for the both of them.  Nyx is awake and sitting with his knees hanging off the foot of the bed while he scrolls through his phone when Luna finally wakes, yawning softly. Hearing her stir behind him he speaks, in a voice that fraught with tension, on the verge of breaking. 

“You’re getting married.”  Luna  sits up on the bed, drawing her sheets up to her chest, unsure of where he plans on going with this, and wondering why he sounds so hurt and accusing.  Granted, they’ve never talked about this, but Luna’d assumed he was being polite about it;  that he'd read her well enough to know it’d be the last thing she’d _ever_ want to talk about.

“That didn’t seem to be a problem for you last night.”

“Because I didn’t—” his cell phone lands in Luna’s lap, and she feels her heart sink.  The email Nyx has been reading is an update on his mission from the Lucis king himself: an urgent plea by Regis for Nyx to try to convince Luna to return;  that it is now in the interests of not just Tenebrae, but the entire world that she marry his son as agreed upon—for fear of Niflheim reneging on their agreement. Nyx buries his head into his hands.

“Nyx—”

“I didn’t know,” he whispers.  “I didn’t. I thought—but you knew this whole time and _still_ you—Luna _why_ would you even—”

“I thought _you_ knew,” Luna says, equally shocked. Hindsight betrays her now: the casual flirting back and forth, the close contact, Nyx’s overall unreservedness toward her.  It all points to a man who had gotten to know her under the umbrella of blissful ignorance; a man who acted freely on his desires _because he thought_ —Luna’s hands clench into fists. _But if he_ had _known._ “ I thought even with you _already_ knowing that and _still_ choosing to ask me out; to kiss me back—I assumed it was because you didn't care.”

“I’m not the kinda guy to poach on another man’s girl, Luna.  I’d never do that.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Luna tells him gently before turning stern. “But I’m _not ‘_ another man’s girl’. I’m my own person, Nyx.  And even if I do marry Noct I will always be first and foremost Queen of Tenebrae before a Princess of Lucis.”

“You’re right;  I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“But you _are_ going to marry him, aren’t you?”

“I—” Luna stares at her hands. “It doesn’t feel like there’s any other alternative.”

“That doesn’t bode well,” Nyx says, finally turning to her with a smile, “coming from the Oracle.”

Luna sighs, lying down again.  The mattress sinks as Nyx crawls back into bed and lies beside her. They stay like that for a while, quiet and contemplative, staring at the slowly oscillating blades of the ceiling fan above.  Nyx’s hand finds hers in the silence.  Luna closes her eyes.

“Hey.  I’ve still got your back, you know.  And I don’t regret last night,” he whispers.

Luna opens her eyes.  “You don’t?”

“Course not. . . do you?” he asks, tentatively.

“I was the instigator, remember?” They both laugh at that.

“As Oracle, I have to ask: did you really not have any visions of this—what happened between us—happening beforehand?”

“My powers don’t work like that, Nyx.”

“Huh. . .”

“And time is somewhat immutable in nature; so even if I did have visions and tried to pre-empt them, time would always seek to correct itself.  Maybe the details would change, but the outcome on the whole wouldn’t.”

“So. . . like destiny, then.”

“I suppose.”

“Can I quote you on that?” Luna turns her head, confused.  “Just so that when I have to debrief and the court martial happens and—” Luna swats him with a pillow and he laughs.  They lapse into silence for a short moment. Eventually, Nyx lets out a low whistle:

“I have to say, Luna.  You’ve got some moves.”

“Are you saying that as someone with experience?”

“Not sure if you can call me experienced: all the people I’ve been with I can count on one hand.  Plus the nights weren’t particularly memorable; just the mornings after.  There’s not a lot of room for romance in this line of work.”

Luna smiles.  “Oh I don’t know about that; you _were_ pretty romantic during dinner last night,” she teases, and Nyx gently nudges her in the side.

“Well, the princess of Tenebrae has gotta be an exception to that rule, I think.”

“You’re good for a woman’s ego, Ser Ulric.”

Nyx chuckles. “No one’s accused me of _that_ before.”

“What do they usually accuse you of?”

“Working too much.” Nyx clears his throat. “So.  Coffee?”

“Maybe later,” Luna murmurs. She times her kiss perfectly when he turns his head to her.  

"You're trying to get me fired, aren't you," he mumbles against her lips, but she feels his hands slithering up her sides before he rolls her over, kissing her deep.  

They. . . never make it to coffee.

 

* * *

**Re-calibrate**

 

 

“So. . . what are we?” Luna asks a few days later, at the Dancing Bean.  She’d caught wind of a few speculative remarks from the staff, and was curious about his input.

“ _We_ ,” Nyx says, lip curling while he adds two sugar cubes into his cup, “are two people who really like each other, but can’t feasibly be happy together without our fatalistic senses of duties to our countries—the world—weighing on our consciences.” He sets down his spoon and takes a long sip.

“Fatalistic?”

“The only retirement guaranteed for a Kingsglaive is death on the battlefield. And you can’t really expect me to believe that one _can_ actually retire from Oracle duty.”

“So we’re doomed lovers,” Luna declares, laughing quietly.

“Without the cliché love triangles,” Nyx adds. 

“You don’t have any resentment towards Noctis?” That notion surprises her.

“He’s  a good kid,” Nyx says, shrugging. “Granted, he’s still insecure and afraid of his future role, but that’s natural. Can’t really learn to run without learning to walk.  And when the King’s time comes. . . well, I’ll be there to serve and protect like I did his old man.”

“I don’t think I could ever tell him about us,” Luna muses. “I think he’d be crushed. Would you?  If he asked or suspected?”

“I’d be under oath to.  There’s powerful magic binding us to the king.  But don’t be so quick to assume—maybe he’ll surprise you, maybe he’ll  be understanding about it.”

“You could lose your job.”

“Nah Noctis is a man of honor. He wouldn’t stoop to that level of unprofessionalism. It shouldn’t matter to him who you were with before. You’re with him now.  That’s all that counts, really.  But if he gives you a hard time about it, well.  You let me know.”

“What in Eos are you going to do?”

“Well, as Kingsglaive I’d politely ask him to back off.  But as your _friend_ , I’d tell him to grow up or go to Hell.”

“Thank you, I think.”

“There’s always Plan B.” Nyx reaches into his pocket and sets two Lethe vials on the table in front of him. “We can forget this whole thing ever happened.”

* * *

**Sluggish**

 

 

Gentiana’s hug is a welcome warmth the moment Luna’s airship touches down in subzero Tenebrae weather, before she quickly ushers her out of the terminal and into their waiting car. In addition to the heater there is also a woolly blanket sitting on the backseat which Gentiana wastes no time in wrapping around Luna. The driver pours a cup of steaming hot chocolate from a thermos into a large mug and presents it to her with a shy smile. 

“T-thank you,” Luna tells them gratefully.  She finishes off the hot chocolate in a few greedy pulls—to Gentiana and the driver’s amazement—and sets the mug aside.  She settles back into her seat, leaning into Gentiana’s shoulder and nestling herself deeper after Gentiana’s arms come up around her.  Eventually when her teeth stop chattering, she whispers, “I missed you.”

“And Tenebrae missed _you_ ,” answers Gentiana, exchanging a reserved smile with the driver in the rear-view mirror.  Her gloved knuckles rub soothing circles in Luna’s back. “I hope you took many photos.”

“I did.” Luna nods, watching as they crawl through slow-moving traffic; windshield wipers working overtime to keep the snow at bay.  Luna yawns, trying to fight the jetlag beginning to set in.  “I filled—” another yawn “—my SD card. Visited all those—” a longer yawn “—cafés you marked out and—”

“We can have a proper catch up when we get back,” Gentiana intervenes gently. “For now, _rest_.”

“I’ll just close my eyes for a few moments.” Luna says. 

She sleeps. 

* * *

**Trenchcoat**

 

 

The room where she is meeting Regis is warm enough render her coat redundant, but Luna keeps it on anyway, keeps her hands in her pockets, feeling a chill of a different sort because of the way the graying king’s eyes observe her. For a long time they sit, quietly analyzing each other over the chessboard.  Regis is the first to move, picking up a pawn and placing it back down onto the board.

“White always moves first in chess,” says Luna, glancing at him puzzled. 

“Sometimes a break from _tradition_ is needed to truly _appreciate_ it,” the lucii says, and Luna inexplicably tenses.  Ordinarily, she would be humbled— _excited_ —at the prospect of receiving advice from a veteran monarch, but the unnecessary emphasis Regis places on the words ‘tradition’ and ‘appreciate’, have her suddenly thinking of Nyx. Wondering if Regis knows.  

And unconsciously fingering the tiny, innocuous vial sitting in her trenchcoat pocket. 

* * *

**Uniform**

 

 

 _'What happens in Lestallum, stays in Lestallum'_ : the first of many agreements between her and Nyx. They agree the night before their return—while sharing the most vintage vino _The Clarion_ has on offer—is their last night. They agree that they should make the most of it, and they _do_ , make the most of it.  The sex is magnificent—but also sad but also funny like the first few times they got together, because _even during sex_  he  _still_ makes it his mission to make her laugh.  (It’s a miracle, really, that he doesn’t get his head crushed between her thighs when he goes down on her.  Idiot.)  And then _he_ finally cracks when Luna, replete in the afterglow hopes to Etro (aloud) that his penchant for telling weird stories doesn’t rub off on her when she’s with Noctis.

“Maybe he’ll find it endearing.  I hear roleplay is in these days,” he teases, letting out a yelp when Luna kicks him off the bed.

They agree to down their potions the moment they board their departing airships.  They agree to recite the spell that will rewrite the memories and strong feelings they have towards each other into blissfully platonic accounts. They agree that it is in their kingdom’s and the _world’s_ best interest, that no one should never find out.

But agreeing, and _doing_ are of course, two very different things.

As they're leaving the meeting room, Regis signals, and Nyx moves out of the shadow of a nearby curtain.  Luna feels a painful lump form in her throat when the grey eyes that meet hers are unblinking and dull, showing only a clinical recognition of her.  He cuts an impressive figure in his uniform: it looks looks like it was tailored within an inch of its life—a few stitches away from being skin-tight. Luna wonders how he’s able to  _move_ in it.

Regis smiles broadly while they shake hands and the official ‘ _re_ introductions’ are made.  “I trust he wasn’t _too_ invasive?” 

“If I was invasive, sire, it was in the interests of keeping her safe,” Nyx answers. He looks at Luna and smiles, but his eyes don’t crinkle at the corners like she remembers. It's the smile of a man who has his guard up.  “Begging your pardon, your highness,” he adds.

"He wasn't," Luna assures Regis. 

 _“You’re hard to recognize when you’re not in uniform_ ,” she’d said once.

Funny how she now can’t recognize him _at all_. 

* * *

**Void**

 

 

The first few times Regis meets with Luna to discuss Niflheim in secret—kingsglaive in tow, of course—Luna is hyper aware of Nyx’s presence: from the way he stands, still as a statue along the back wall; to the way his gaze is leveled at the invisible enemy in the air in front of him.  Occasionally he’ll touch his earpiece to relay the lucii king’s status back to his team leader in a humourless baritone that has him indistinguishable from a robot.  Luna watches him in the corner of her eye during these initial meetings, watching, _waiting_ for any instance of the wonderful person who _didn’t_ judge her for running away from Tenebrae when she did, but validated her feelings instead like Gentiana when the whole world refused to. 

 _And now he’s gone_ , she thinks, a little over three months later while she lays a fresh bouquet of forget-me-nots in front of her father’s headstone.  Gentiana squeezes her shoulder comfortingly, then moves away to give her space.  The sky was overcast when they arrived, growing darker and darker. Gentiana has an umbrella ready and open over Luna’s head to shield her from the first drops of rain.  Luna thinks nothing of it, still lost in her own thoughts and nostalgia until the Lucis insignia printed on the umbrella’s canopy catches her eye.  Gentiana anticipates, and answers the questions in Luna’s eyes by indicating over her shoulder to Nyx; standing a few metres away, talking into his earpiece. The sight of him is enough to have Luna firmly pushing the umbrella away.

“Your highness—”

“Please go stand with Ny—Ser Ulric.  He won’t be of any use to his king if he’s sick.”

“He won’t be of any use to his king if _you’re_ sick.” As if to punctuate Gentiana's point, the rain falls even harder. Large, fat droplets; the kind of rain that floods. Luna stays right where she is, not the least bit bothered by the way her sundress is quickly beginning to soak through and cling to her skin.

“ _Go_ ,” she insists, when Gentiana doesn’t move immediately. “I’ll be along shortly. I promise.” Gentiana nods grudgingly and is gone, leveling a glare that silences whatever protests Nyx has when she holds the umbrella over his head.

Finally alone, Luna tilts her head skyward.  

_"Hey.  I’ve still got your back, you know."_

Hot tears mixing in with the cold, spring rain, Luna closes her eyes and lets herself say good-bye a second time. 

* * *

 

**Waking Up**

 

 

A few days after that afternoon in the rain, Luna, unsurprisingly, wakes up late one morning with a cold.  It’s not serious enough that she has to stay in bed, mind: just a runny nose which could easily be kept at bay with over-the-counter medication (or a Cure spell),but Gentiana forces her back under the blankets and takes her temperature anyway.  She’s wearing a surgical mask which in a comical sense might be considered overkill, but then Gentiana’s never been one to leave anything to chance. 

“I have already contacted King Regis,” Gentiana says, pouring steaming echinacea and lemon tea into a cup while Luna tucks into the pancakes and fruit on her bed tray.  “Your meetings have been rescheduled for next week Wednesday.  He will send Ser Ulric to collect you, as per—” when Luna’s lips purse at the latter’s name Gentiana tilts her head a little, concerned.  “Is something the matter with Ser Ulric?”

Luna takes a large bite of watermelon, and shrugs ponderously.  Gentiana sets the cup of tea in front of Luna then plants herself in the chair beside the bed in response. There’s no judgement in her tone when she asks the question, but there is a speculative smile.  

“Nothing at all,” Luna says.  She lifts her bed tray out of her lap and sets it onto her bedside table, appetite lost.  “I’m just certain Ser Ulric would rather be somewhere else, that’s all.”

"Oh?" The smile on Gentiana’s face refuses to let up. Luna raises her teacup to her lips, staring innocently back over the tiny wisps of vapor curling in the air. 

As if relenting, Gentiana makes to rise.  Luna’s eyes narrow, immediately on guard.  Gentiana’s never been one to back down; there has to be an ace up her sleeve— _there’s always_ _an ace up her sleeve_.  Luna keeps her tone casual, watching her cross the room toward the door:

“Off to work?”

“In a moment,” Gentiana says, removing her mask.  “Ser Ulric is stationed right outside, so I’ll pass on your request for a substitute.  His presence is _clearly_ making you uncomfortable so—” Gentiana laughs as Luna explodes out of bed, catching her wrist before she touches the door handle.  “Or. . .not?” Gentiana says, smile triumphant. 

Luna guides her over to sit beside each other on the bed.  She hangs her head.  “Not,” she declares, softly.  “I just. . . ” she pauses when Gentiana takes her hand.

“Regardless I am here for you.”

“You knew?” Luna whispers, glancing back up.  Gentiana shrugs and immediately Luna blushes, feeling silly.  Of _course_ she knew.

“Your first day back you were a little more distressed in comparison to when you left," Gentiana explains.  "In hindsight, I admit I only started to suspect when I saw the way you two greeted each other when Regis made the introductions.  Making friends has always been second nature for you, and  Ulric’s file tells me he's of a similar disposition. Naturally, it didn’t add up with how ‘cool’ you acted towards each other when you saw each other again.”

“It’s not that I didn’t want to tell you—I _do_ want to tell you,” Luna says. “It’s just. . . it’s still a little raw, even now.  He was  wonderful.  He made me forget—even if it was only for a moment." She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.  "But all dreams come to an end, don’t they?”

“Even saying that it doesn’t give him the right to pretend that they never happened.” Jaw set, Gentiana looks ready to physically hurt him.

“Because they didn’t happen,” Luna says.  And then in a small voice: “at least, for _him_ they didn’t.”

“Because of this?” Gentiana produces the empty lethe vial from her pocket and holds it up.  Luna nods softly, cringing at the memory of the night they’d come back from visiting Luna’s father; the pathetic crying mess she was when Gentiana all but broke down the bathroom door in her urgency and worry. 

“I’m glad you stopped me."

“Of _course_ I stopped you.  I thought you were trying to poison yourself!”  Luna winces at the scolding and slight hurt in Gentiana’s tone and squeezes her hand. 

“I’m sorry I put you through that. I should have told you.” Gentiana exhales quietly, acknowledging the apology with a nod.

“I take it he drank it?”

Luna nods. “We agreed to.  I’ve been trying to drink it but something keeps holding me back.  I don’t know if it’s because I’m selfish or scared—”

“Selfish—debateable,” Gentiana says. “Scared—definitely not.  I think it’s very brave of you for wanting to hold onto that memory, painful as it might be.  If you’d erased it your whole journey to Lestallum would have been pointless, I think.  Youve experienced a growth of sorts, in yourself.  Better to have loved and lost—”

“—than to have never loved at all,” Luna finishes, sighing.  Her eyes go to the bedroom door, curious (and perhaps a little tempted). “Is he really outside?”

“Actually—” Gentiana bursts into laughter while Luna hits her with a pillow.  “To be precise, he’s on his lunch break right now, probably shadow boxing in the gardens instead of eating like a normal human being again,” she says, making a face.  For a long moment Gentiana quietly sits there frowning, trying to fit the pieces of this very haphazard puzzle Luna’s given her.  As if succeeding, she smiles at Luna, catlike _._

 _I know_ that _look_ , Luna thinks, bracing herself _._

“On a scale from one to ten, ten being mind blowing how does Ser Ulric rate in the—”

“Gen!” Luna admonishes, cheeks turning red. 

Gentiana escapes with a laugh, evading all the pillows that go flying her way enroute to the door.  Nyx arrives just as she closes it behind her; stopping a few steps away, bemused.  Smile vanishing Gentiama crosses her arms over her chest and regards him from head to toe, cynical.  _What Luna sees in you_ I’ll _never know_.

“Uh. . .  everything alright with the princess ma’am?”

‘Ma’am’, Gentiana repeats in her head, irked.  _Does he ever switch off?_ “Everything is as it should be—though you’re welcome to check in on her, if you’d like," she adds.

Nyx’s eyes widen slightly, and then inexplicably his cheeks go red—but just as quickly he recovers, smiling. “I uh. . .I’ll take your word for it,” he says.  Gentiana nods and leaves him to his own devices.  After she rounds the corner she pauses in her tracks, replaying his odd reaction in her mind. 

If she didn’t know any better, she’d _swear_ he was being evasive.

 

* * *

 

**Xenophile**

 

 

“Amazing.”

“Do you like it?”

“I love it. Thanks Luna. This is an awesome souvenir.  Carnival, you said?”

“Mm-hmm.”

"Wish we had more of those."

Noctis struggles to hold up the chocobo plushie in a way that it doesn’t block his view of Luna across from him but he gives in.  The conversation that follows is awkward but endearing, with Noctis occasionally moving the chocobo’s wings as he talks, much like a puppeteer.  She knows he could easily set the plushie aside and talk to her normally, but he’s always been shy and reserved, so it’s fine.  Plus, if she's being honest, having the chocobo act as a buffer between them is a relief: not being able to see his face does help her better organize her thoughts while she (vaguely) regales him on everything Lestallum. He listens, enrapt the entire time, becoming especially invested at the mention of her visit to a chocobo ranch. 

“Did you get to ride one?”

“I did,” Luna smiles fondly.

“Wow.  What was that like?”

“Amazing, honestly.  Their feathers are so _soft_ , almost like fur. You should try it.”

“ _Right_.” Noctis lets out a quiet laugh. His hands wrap tighter around the chocobo’s chubby stomach, and though his voice is muffled, she hears the melancholy clear as crystal. “Easier said than done,” he says, and Luna knows he’s thinking of the war and of his father.

“You could take the guys,” she suggests, gently.  “I wouldn’t tell.”

“But _I_ would,” Noctis says, exhaling tiredly.  “There’s not a single convincing excuse I could ever come up with to justify that to my dad.  And even saying that I don’t want him to worry unnecessarily.  I guess _maybe_ when this war’s over I _could_. .  .”

“I understand.”

“Doesn't mean I don’t envy you though.  You’ve always been brave since we were kids,” he adds in a shy tone that tells Luna he’s blushing. “That’s one thing I really--I've always--” he lets out a nervous laugh, clearing his throat-- “I guess what I’m trying to say is. . . ”

“. . .is?” Luna encourages, leaning forward, hands on her knees.

“Luna I—” a knock at the door disrupts the moment and the chocobo deflates in the corner of Luna’s eye while Gentiana pokes her head in.  Luna’s shoulders deflate as well.

“Apologies for the interruption your highnesses,” Gentiana says, one eyebrow slightly raised in interest at the Lucis’ heir’s seating arrangement.  “Lady Luna—”

“Is it that time already?” Luna asks. 

“I’m afraid so, your highness.” Luna sighs, rising out of her seat.  As she straightens her skirt she glances over at Noctis, still hiding behind the chocobo and falters a little in her resolve. She knows Regis wants to be the one to tell him about the wedding but a few seconds ago . . . _it almost felt like a confession, of sorts._    

“Noct—”

“I’ll see you around,” he interrupts hastily. Nervously _._ “You uh. Should get going—while it’s still light.”

“. . .right,” Luna says, hiding her disappointment.  “I’ll. . . see you around then?”

“Yeah.  Definitely.”

The chocobo waves her good-bye while the door closes softly behind her, and both Nyx and Gentiana exchange puzzled glances, hurrying to keep up with her brisk pace out the back doors of the Lucis palace and into the waiting car. 

_Liar._

* * *

 

 

**Yearning**

“Y-your highness!" Nyx half-yells, half shrieks "I- I—fuck!”

Nyx loses his balance from doing handstand push-ups and crash lands to the ground in the most ungracious way possible, before quickly scrambling to his feet and bowing.  Ordinarily, Luna would have laughed, if not for the fact that a) handstand push-ups are a dangerous exercise and she feels bad for surprising him: he could have seriously injured himself and b) Nyx always trains shirtless: it’s difficult to laugh when you’re too busy trying to not let your eyes wander. . .

. . . over toned arms that have held you close some nights, made you feel safe; made you forget. . .

. . . or the memory of those rock hard abs pressing into your back the morning after while a kiss is pressed in your cheek; watching the sunrise together. . .

Nyx clears his throat, most probably envisioning the reprimand he’s going to receive from his superiors for not being adequately dressed in the presence of Tenebrae’s princess, Luna guesses.  He has the look of a man tip-toeing on ice, and is blushing so deeply, she’s certain the heat from his face alone would have him melting right through it. “Uh. . . how may I be of assistance?”

Luna blames Gentiana’s influence _entirely_ , for interpreting that question in a dirty context.  “I was wondering if you’d like to join me for coffee,” Luna says.  “As you well know, thanks to my stint in Lestallum I can’t leave the palace unattended.  Normally I’d take Gentiana, but she’s snowed under with paperwork—”

“—ahh, no problem your highness,” Nyx says, coming to the rescue.  Another fake, diplomatic smile. “Just give me a few minutes to shower and get changed.”

A good fifteen minutes later he turns up to the throne room, freshly showered and almost dropping the keys in his hands when he sees her sipping at a large foam cup while offering another in a cardboard cup holder toward him. 

“. . . you. . . already went and got it,” he says, mortified. He receives the other coffee--albeit reluctantly.  “Uh your highness, thing is, I’m lactose—” his eyes widen as he sniffs at it, no doubt registering the tell-tale scent of soymilk within—“h-how did—”

“I’m the Oracle, remember?” Luna answers while he takes a sip, fervently glad no one in Eos has any comprehension of how her powers work.  She’s told Nyx back when they were in Lestallum, but thanks to lethe he no longer remembers. 

“Right.”

She hates that there’s newfound respect and admiration in those grey eyes when he looks at her then, because for a brief, brief moment she’s transported back to the front counter of the Dancing Bean and she’s tempted to tell herself that it’s recognition she sees instead.  “Uh, so I guess. . .?” Nyx holds up the car keys, awkward.

“Are you alright with me driving?” Luna asks. 

“It would actually be safer—you being the Oracle and all,” Nyx says humbly, relinquishing them to her. 

Their fingers brush in the process and as he blushes Luna just smiles up at him, ignoring the spike in her heartbeat. Even without her powers of foresight Luna knows she's just setting herself up for more pain, more hurt. 

Worth it.

* * *

 

**Zeal**

 

 

“A hundred or so vials and you only managed to save _one_?  You're unbelievable!”

What Crowe Altius lacks in the necessary leadership qualities that could possibly have her succeeding Drautos, she more than makes up for with a terrifying spell-casting ability that borderlines on preternatural.  It is a fact that has her both respected among and feared by her fellow glaives; notably Nyx Ulric who is currently at risk of having his left ear stretched out by half a centimeter while she berates him for poking around her lab— _again_.  One would think they were squabbling children at the rate they were going.

“Now Crowe, you _did say_ I could take a few vials—”

“A _few_ not the _entire batch_.” Crowe gives Nyx’s ear a hard jerk, earning a wince from the latter. Her voice lowers to a deadly whisper:  “I don’t care if you get stomped flat in the attempt: if I don’t see at least two kilograms of powdered adamantoise dung on my work station this time tomorrow, I will settle for your cold dead corpse instead—understood?”

“Does it _have_ to be two—ow!” Nyx says, eyes squeezed in pain. “Roger that: two—”

“— _kilograms_ ,” says Crowe. 

"Kinda excessive, don't you think?"

“I don't care.  Are we clear?”

“ _Crystal_.” Nyx is rubbing his ear profusely when she lets go, the two freezing in their tracks with mirrored blushes on their faces when they turn and see Regis seated on a nearby flat bench, calmly watching the sunset in the distance beyond.  Instantly they both bend at one knee, heads bowed low:

“Your Grace,” they say in unison: Crowe with horror, Nyx with relief.

“Uh we were just uh,” Nyx clears his throat, eyes to the ground and pointedly nudges Crowe. 

“Catching up, sire,” Crowe says, sending a dirty look his way before smiling up at Regis.  “Ulric was just putting me up to speed on the ingredients local only to Lestallum.”

“And offering to help you restock, no doubt,” Regis adds, smiling. Crowe bows her head again, ears turning red in embarrassment.  Nyx smirks.  “If I might have a word alone with Ulric—”

“Yes of course, Your Grace,” Crowe says, rising quickly to her feet, Nyx following, puzzled.  She sends him a final death glare over her shoulder and is gone in a few quick strides. 

“Nyx Ulric, you should never anger a mage—particularly one of Crowe’s calibre,” Regis admonishes gently, finally rising from the bench. 

“Noted sire,” Nyx says, subconsciously touching his ear. Libertus is definitely going to be waiting back at the apartment with a ruler to measure the result. Dick. “Erm. You wanted to speak with me sire?”

Regis motions for Nyx to follow and the glaive hurries to fall into step beside him.  _Where to begin_ , Regis thinks, feeling the weight of the envelope in his jacket pocket. “Once again I wanted to thank you for the great effort and lengths you put in towards protecting Princess Luna and her privacy during her time in Lestallum.  Tenebrae will be forever indebted to you for your services.  The Princess herself told me I should perhaps consider elevating your position among your fellow glaives.”

Nyx clears his throat, cheeks turning red. “Wow,” he says.  “Her highness is very kind.”

“She is, isn’t she,” Regis muses. 

“But any of the others would have done the same if they been assigned in my place. I was just doing my job, serving Lucis.”

 _Always so humble,_ Regis thinks, proud.  It does nothing to lessen the weight of the envelope in his pocket, however. “Perhaps,” he says, “but even saying that your fellow glaives would have taken different approaches and may not have yielded the same _result_.”

“Result?” 

“You now have Princess Luna’s trust,” Regis says. “For that reason it puts you uncontested as a top candidate for this next assignment.”  At that, the glaive halts in his tracks. Regis stops as well. Around them the spotlights of the training ground begin to activate, one by one. 

“You want _me_ to continue to protect the princess,” Nyx says, when the last light switches on.  “To escort her to Altissia.”  His expression darkens at the notion, eyebrows furrowed deep, lips drawing into a tight line. 

“Are you objecting, Ulric?” Nyx doesn’t answer that question, instead choosing to press on.

“Your Grace with the utmost respect I would be put to better use _here_ , in _Lucis_ , protecting _you._ If I’m in Altissia—”

“—I will be able rest easy, knowing that Princess Luna will be safe, and that I’ve made the right choice,” Regis concludes, with a finality in his tone that anyone--glaive or civilian--knows better than to argue against.  Nyx’s jaw clenches as he speaks:

“Will that be all, sire?”

“That will be all,” Regis says. He's straightening the lapels of his jacket when he remembers the envelope. “Ser Ulric,”

Nyx turns, eyebrows raised.

“Do you have any objections to the union between Tenebrae and Lucis?”

Nyx blinks. “Of. . . course not, sire,” he answers, staggered. “Tenebrae has been always been an ally to Lucis.  Lucis will be stronger for it.”

“So why object to protecting the princess?” 

“Permission to speak freely, sire?”

“Granted.”

“Sire, you saved my life when I was a kid.  I don’t know if you remember—”

“—of course I do—”

“—and since then I’ve thought of nothing else but repaying the favour,” Nyx says, grey eyes blazing. “You’re a great king, and Lucis can’t afford to lose you.  With Niflheim arriving to sign the treaty I. . . it just sounds too good to be true.  _You_ may be able to rest easy knowing I’m protecting Luna, but _I_ won’t be able to do the same, with the emperor and his armies at our front door.” Saying that, the glaive bows stiffly a final time before leaving— _storming_ —out of the training ground altogether.

A little while later Regis is on the bench again, staring at the envelope in his hands when Cor finally makes his presence known, slouching out of the shadows to sit beside him.

“Ulric’s always been a handful,” Cor says. “You have to wonder how Drautos does it.”

“I imagine he manages.” Regis empties the envelope, feeling the weight of it transfer to his heart. 

The contents of it are colored photographs of Nyx and Lunafreya, at the end of what evidently was a romantic evening together--if the way the two are wrapped up in each other’s arms, kissing like the world is ending is any indicator. Cor had only dropped in Lestallum to check in after routine check-ins with Nyx became inconsistent and infrequent, eventually cutting off altogether.

“He didn’t want to go,” Regis says. 

“To Altissia?”

Regis gives a wane nod.  “He was vehemently against it.”

“Could’ve been an act.”

“It wasn’t.”  Regis crumples the photographs in his hand and after willing it, they burst into flame, quickly turning to ash.  Cor raises an eyebrow as he dusts his hands off.  “Of all the glaives Ulric has always been the most determined.  I never realized the source of that determination until tonight.  He owes me a debt, Cor, and will not stop until he sees it repaid.”

“You could send someone else to Altissia.”

“There _is_ no one else.”

 

~

 

Nyx’s days in Tenebrae pass by in a blur after that conversation, him dully crossing out the days on his calendar until one fateful afternoon a few days from the treaty signing when the princess herself appears out of seemingly nowhere, scaring the living daylights out of him.  He’s a glaive: they’re hardened warriors who are  _not_ supposed to scare easily, so that’s fun when it happens (read: mortifying as hell).  Because he’s still reeling, he only catches segments of the conversation: something about coffee, something about paperwork, something about that Gentiana-lady who definitely has it in for him—but he’s ninety per cent sure he’s just agreed to it.

His saving grace—kind of—is ironically in the form of Gentiana, who pokes her head out of her office while he’s on his way to the throne room, tossing him a set of car keys.  Alright, so he’s driving. _Where_ , _though_?

“It’s peak hour so Polom’s is out of the question,” Gentiana says.  “Rosa’s would be a better option and they’ve never burnt their beans in all the times that Luna and I gone there and—” she pauses, smirking a little-- “and you have _no_ idea what I’m talking about, do you.”

Fuck.

“Uh. . . ”

“You’ll be just fine.” She closes the door in his face. 

“Good talk,” Nyx mutters. 

(Thank goodness for internet search engines, though; _in your face Gentiana_.)

He finds Luna in the throne room, smiling as she holds out a coffee to him and he just wants the floor to open up and swallow him because this next part is gonna be awkward: “Uh your highness, thing is, I’m lactose—” the scent of soy milk wafts into the air around him and he goes completely still. “H—how did—” he takes a careful sip. Definitely soy milk.

 _There’s no way she could’ve known_.  He knows for a fact that this isn’t in his file because it technically isn't cause for worry: he's only ‘mildly’ lactose intolerant; just so happens to prefer the taste of—

_Wait a fucking goddamned minute._

And then he smiles. 

* * *

_-fin-_

 


End file.
